Page 100 of Scoring Eden

His brow arches. “Your room is on the other side of the hall.”

“Right, yes, but I—”

“Eden?” His fingers meet my chin for the second time today, tilting it up. My stomach swoops, his proximity doing nothing to unmuddy my mind. It makes it worse, actually, the warmth of his skin on mine, the gentle dominance of the gesture that has my body naturally leaning farther into his, my lips tingling like only the touch of his could make them stop. “How much did you hear?”

“All of it,” I whisper.

He studies me, dark, red-rimmed eyes burning into mine.

Oh my God, has he been crying?

“Are you okay?”

He blinks. Nods. But his eyes stay the same. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He smiles. It’s not a real one.

“Do you wanna talk about anything?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want your pity.”

I step toward him. It’s the closest we’ve been since I was writhing on a washing machine and his fingers were inside me. His eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t step back, so I take it as a win.

“I’m not giving it to you.”

He frowns. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“All sad and shit.”

Because I am sad. I’m sad for the boy the same age as my son who experienced something no child ever should. I’m sad for the man he is now, who’s so afraid of being left behind that he won’t allow himself to love. And I’m sad for me, because knowing what I know now, I can’t rationalize my heartache by villainizing him anymore.

And if I can’t villainize him, then all I can do is…

“Kiss me.” The words are out before I’ve thought them through.

“What?”

His confusion is fair. I’m not sure why I’m doing what I’m doing, not when the last time he kissed me resulted in us not speaking for several days and an unmistakable, ever-present tension in the house. He was clear that we could never be anything more than whatever the fuck we are now, and I know that hasn’t changed.

But I guess what has changed is the fact that I now understand why.

I wrap my hands around his neck to bring his face closer to mine. “Just don’t ghost me this time, yeah?”

Despite my bravado, my lips are soft and shy when they meet his. There’s still an element of insecurity glittered over my actions—a natural reaction to being rejected after your first sexual experience since your ex-husband, I’d argue. But when his fingers move from my chin to cup my cheekbone, the tips of his fingers slipping into my hair, I forget everything but how he feels, how he tastes, how he sounds when he moans into my mouth like he’s spent the last few days grieving what we could be too.

My legs circle his waist as I climb him like a tree. One of his hands finds my ass to support me—or just to feel me up, I don’t care—the other anchoring me to him, strong and unyielding.

“Bedroom,” I plead against his lips, our mouths still fused, my nails digging half-moons into his shoulders. But I don’t do anything to make the journey across the hall easier for him. My teeth trap his bottom lip as my core grinds messily over his abs. We bump into something, and Alex curses into my mouth. But as long as he’s alive, there’s nothing that can stop what’s about to happen.

We’re inevitable, even if he doesn’t realize it yet.

This poor, sad boy who is more capable of love than any man I’ve ever known, yet denies himself the joys of it. I want to show him that this thing between us isn’t something to be scared of. Because if he lets it, it could be everything he’s needed since he was ten.

And yeah, I can’t predict the future. I don’t know if something will happen to me tomorrow or ten years down the line, but I do know that, whatever time I have, I want to spend it with him. And I think that, maybe, he wants to spend it with me too.